


where something was

by Trojie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Gen, Hiatus, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 06:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21423793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trojie/pseuds/Trojie
Summary: Prompt 8: Pete/Patrick, hiatus
Comments: 14
Kudos: 19
Collections: No Tags Fall 2019





	where something was

All Pete ever wanted to do was leave a mark on the world. And oh boy, has he done it. Left such a mark, like a little kid scrawling on the wallpaper in Sharpie, but like the little kid and the Sharpie, it's only left an actual mark on a small corner of the world; the corner he inhabits. 

Oh, he fucking hates himself for being maudlin and he fucking hates himself anyway, so what's the difference. The world needs to see less of him, so he retreats. 

Grows his hair back. Goes to therapy. Stays out of the tabloids. Burns three notebooks full of lyrics that never went anywhere, which is more symbolic than anything else because really, he mostly texts Patrick lyrics in fragments as he thinks of them, and has done since about 2004. 

So he gets a new phone, one that doesn't have Patrick's number saved to it. No paper trail, no chain of thought to latch onto. 

A clean slate. 

***

_Patrick wakes up muzzily at ten am and rolls over to check his phone. _

_His voicemail is full of empty, breathing messages. Not creepy, heavy breathing, just … full of the not-noise of someone who can't work out what to say until the beep comes, and they get cut off. Over and over, like eight or nine messages of just that._

_He doesn't recognise the number, so he deletes them._

***

There's something about having a hickey that just. Okay, maybe Pete's a bit of a creep about it, to be honest, but he loves the visibility of having a lovebite, just like he loves to walk around shirtless at a festival to show off the bruises he earned in the pit. 

It's a signpost, a record. It says _I was here, I connected with someone_ in rainbow colours.

Pete hasn't had either of those things - a hickey, a kick in the face - in what feels like an entire lifetime, now, although he's aware that his timesense gets worse and worse the more bored he is. 

It's high fucking summer in LA and Pete's got every excuse to parade around without most of his clothes on, it's his damn house, and no-one else is here, but he's so fucking lonely. He sprawls out on the sofa instead, trying to read.

There's a clattering of doggy feet and a jangling of dogtags, and suddenly Hemmy is square on the middle of his belly and Pete has the wind fully knocked out of him. 

He wheezes up into that most beloved gargoyle face, and Hemmy grins back at him. 

'Whadda you want, huh?'

Hemmy whines. Ever eloquent, just like his namesake. It might be Pete's imagination, but he's sure the dog looks out the window, and then back at Pete, then out the window again. 

'Out? You want out?'

He's a bulldog, he doesn't really have a tail to wag, but his butt wiggles excitedly and then he does possibly even more damage to Pete's body by leaping off it. 

'Okay, okay, let's go for a walk, buddy.' 

Pete needs a coffee, anyway. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he's pulling his shoes on, at his sad and baggy t-shirt that he has sort of been wearing maybe for a couple of days, possibly, and then looks out the window.

The sun is blazing full-strength. 

Pete throws his shirt on the bed, and whistles for Hemmy.

***

Pete does not get a single new tattoo. 

Jack Skellington already knows too much - Pete doesn't want to add reinforcements.

But he does pen a note - scribble a note, really - to Patrick. Which he doesn't send, in the end, but the act of committing ink to paper galvanises him into making the phonecall he eventually makes. 

***

Patrick says they should do this at his home, his little studio, and Pete agrees. He doesn't want there to be a third person who knows they tried this, in case it fails. He doesn't want to waste tape - metaphorically, obviously, because no-one records demos on actual tape any more, jesus christ - on a maybe. 

Even with the delete key in full view, the waveforms Patrick records onto his Macbook look itchily real to Pete.

Patrick puts his guitar down and stretches up up up to the ceiling. Pete can hear every crackle of vertebrae shifting. 

Spacebar starts up the sounds again. And. Like. They're fine, probably, but.

Patrick bites his lip, and hits spacebar a second time. 'Pete -'

'Yeah, I know,' says Pete. 'Can we just. Let's not keep those, okay?'

'Pete.'

Patrick saves everything, aggressively reuses bits of anything left over from a session until every bit is gone, autocannibalism of the creative mind. It'd be like putting a whole, untouched wedding cake straight in the dumpster. Pete knows that.

'I don't think I'm ready,' Pete says. 'For this to … be a thing we did.'

Patrick sighs, and clicks 'Move To Trash.'

'Want a beer?'

'Fuck yes.'

***

It's late, and Pete should go. It's late, and they're three beers down apiece, and Pete should call a cab and go. 

But he missed Patrick's dumb little giggle, and his nasty-funny sense of humour, which is why he's still here, three beers in. He's going to have to get a cab back in the morning to pick up his car - he's not stupid enough to try driving like this. 

Eventually he heaves himself to his feet. 'Alright, alright. I gotta - oh my god, I gotta go or I'm gonna end up crashing on your couch.'

Patrick shrugs, easy and lazy. 'You can if you want. I can find you a blanket.'

'Nah,' says Pete, who's getting better at mastering the trick that defeated Oscar Wilde, even if he does say so himself. 'Tempting, but I should get back.'

'Water first,' commands Patrick, lurching to his own feet and to the kitchen. It's like they became adults or something, and no-one's been around to watch it happen. Patrick supervises Pete necking a tall glass of water, and then calling a cab "to make sure you get the address right, it's been a while". 

When the horn starts honking outside, Patrick walks Pete to the door and pulls him in tight for a hug. He's warm and soft and Pete's heart shudders like a kickdrum between his ribs.

Every single thing in Pete wants to tip his head and turn it into something it's still not ready to be yet. Three years ago, he would have - three years ago he did, often, and that's how he got some of those bruises he misses, that's where he found some of those lyrics he sent texts about, that's what he committed quite a lot of tape to - but lately he's been learning things, even if he hasn't been writing them down. 

***

**Hiatus**  
_noun_  
1: A space where something is missing.  
2: A cessation in deposition; a gap in the record. 

Origin: Latin, mid 16th century (originally denoting a physical gap): literally ‘gaping’.


End file.
